


And So Shall They Rule

by hugemind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Sam, Consort Dean Winchester, Facials, M/M, Public Sex, Sam 'Boy King of Hell' Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Supernatural AU: King of Hell Sam and Consort Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-30
Updated: 2007-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hugemind/pseuds/hugemind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean meets Sam in Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So Shall They Rule

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [](http://sadelyrate.livejournal.com/profile)[**sadelyrate**](http://sadelyrate.livejournal.com/). All remaining mistakes are mine. Originally posted to LJ on December 30, 2007.

When Sam turns, he saves Dean from the deal and disappears. Dean's heard about the Demon Messiah angle a long time ago, doesn't care, but he hunts his brother nonetheless. Although it's more like trying to catch Sam to kick his ass for the Darth Vader act than to do a full-on exorcism. The chase is difficult, demons that are there suddenly are no more, like they're running away from Dean. He'd want to believe that it's because they're terrified of him, but he knows better than that. It's only the calm before the storm. Dean tries not to think what it exactly means if Sam's down there, pulling the strings. Still, he gets close enough a couple of times, only ending up to deal with lesser demons that are about as fun as they are humble. He exorcises them quickly.

It's been three months when demons catch him on some dark Ohio parking lot, a few steps away from the salt line on the doorstep of his motel room. Dean's tired, hungry and pissed because the Impala's tape deck almost ate Zeppelin II, which is a complete mystery to him because his baby has always loved the Zep, and his bed will be lonely and cold without Sam's reassuring warmth wrapped around him. The meat-suited demons wrestle him down, and fuck, he didn't expect to be ambushed while demons had been retreating from him. He's not even sure that they are demons before he sees their black eyes because they're keeping their mouths shut, no taunts or cocky smirks.

There's four of them against one of him, low blows and bruises all around, and Dean keeps waiting for black smoke to crawl inside him. Or maybe that's just a show trick and his mind will be pushed down inside his body without a warning. In the end, he goes unviolated unless you count the vicious kicks connecting with his kidneys and ribs before they knock him out. Dean thinks that it's just one of those days.

\---

He wakes up in a dark room, lying on a soft bed, and while Dean generally has nothing against it, the air is too stuffy and hot to breathe. The dryness of it pulls his skin tight, and the smell of sulfur permeates everything. That can't be good. A single torch crackles by the doorway, casting orange light and black shadows over five nearest yards. The room looks like it's carved in stone, no finesse in the rough texture, the floor bare, one chair by the bed, and Dean throws the sheets aside, stands up, nothing supporting his swaying body. The pain in his ribs is not that bad -- could be much worse -- but he feels like he's slept for a week. For all he knows, maybe he has.

He's got only his jeans on, even his boots and socks are gone, and the hard-packed dirt under the soles of his feet burns slowly like the last dying embers of a camp fire. There's a narrow hallway outside the room, more torches lighting the way on his right, a dead end on the left. The tension in his shoulders gets worse as he hears distant screams, tortured and terrified, echoes of them mingling with an angry rumble that's somewhere much closer.

There's faint light at the end of the hallway, and he's pretty damn sure that he won't hear the heavenly harps next.

The hallway opens up to a vast cave, ceiling so high up Dean can't even see it, carved in stone like the room he wandered out of, only better lit. The walls are riddled with alcoves where hellfire burns eternal, and yeah, he suspected as much. Dean's trodding farther into the cave, floor paved with smooth stone, not marble but something cool that burns his feet like ice after the heated dirt.

Here and there are piles of pebbles and dirt, sitting unperturbed on the stone floor, out of place, and Dean wants to make a crack about feng shui for demons before he sees an honest-to-god throne on the far wall. It's empty but only because Sam's walking towards him.

It's a first good look Dean gets at his little brother. He still looks like Sam. Exactly like Sam. No yellow eyes -- no black or red eyes either -- still wearing a plaid shirt and holed jeans. There's a scar right in his hairline, scrapes on his knuckles, but nothing else has changed. The light had been gone from Sam's eyes even before he turned, and Dean now understands that it's because of this. Another future traded in to keep him alive.

Sam stops a few feet away from him, close enough to receive a punch if Dean wants to throw one, far enough to give him room to think. The ass-kicking is still an option, but it's not as easy to do when Darth Vader looks like someone stole his puppy.

Dean gestures at the room with his hand, shifting his weight from foot to foot, smiling nervously. "Man, they're taking this Boy King thing seriously." It's _Hi_ and _What the fuck, man?_ and _You still you, Sammy?_ all at once, wrapped up in something else entirely.

Sam laughs quietly and looks down. "Yeah, they are."

An awkward silence lands between them, Dean hearing the angry rumble again and fidgeting in his skin that's a size too small. Hell sure as fuck wasn't made for humans, and he tries desperately not to think about what that means for Sam.

"So, look man, I appreciate the invitation and I woulda brought a six-pack if you had warned me but I think I should go now." He turns around, intending to head back to where he came, not caring if the hallway's just a dead end. Fuck, it's as dead as the one waiting for him topside as well, and he really just wants his brother back.

"Dean, wait," Sam says with a hint of desperation. "I need you."

"Hell, Sammy. You can't always get everything you want," Dean says, turning around and spreading his arms wide in frustration. It's not fair and Dean knows it even before he says it. Sam never asked for this, being the ruler of Hell, and Dean owes him big time, but he's slowly suffocating already. He won't choose to be evil, not even for Sam.

"It's not like that. Well, it is partly, but I need your help. I can't do this alone anymore." Sam's face is contorted by pain and sadness, soft lines of apologies in the corners of his eyes, and Dean can't help but to step a little closer to his brother.

"This? Rule Hell? Conquer kingdoms with your army of demons?" Dean's just picking a fight, wanting an out before he can't trust himself to say no anymore.

"No," Sam bites out in shock, hunching a little more to himself. "I-- I have a plan. I'm gonna bring them down from the inside."

Dean's startled into silence. Sure, that sounds like something Sam would do. Something completely idiotic and done behind Dean's back so that Dean can't stop him. "Dude, are you serious? You think you can keep those freaks on a leash? 'Cause the ones that took me, make me either think that you have some pent up teenage anger inside you or they had career goals."

"I'm sorry. They-- they weren't supposed to do that. That's why I need you here." Sam's every word is pained, like there's an invisible pressure on his bones that's getting too much for him to take at any moment. The furious bellowing comes from somewhere close now and it's getting louder -- Dean suspects that it's got something to do with Sam's agony and -- what the fuck is that sound anyway?

"Sammy, I'm plain ol' human. If they're not going to listen to you, they sure as hell won't listen to me."

Sam straightens up a little, perks like he always does when he senses that he can talk Dean into something. "I'll make you my consort, Dean. They'll have to listen to you then."

"What? You gonna turn me into a demon?" The panic in Dean's voice is just a thin edge, words crushed closer together than usual.

"It's not like that. It's just a small ritual and you'll be my second in command. You'll be safe." Sam's breathing easier now, the stress gone for a moment.

Dean chuckles. "Ritual? It's not gonna be blood, is it?"

"It doesn't have to be blood. Don't worry, Dean, you'll like it." Sam manages a small, sly smile, and Dean knows that it'll be either something very awesome or the last thing he ever does.

He steps hesitantly in front of Sam, close enough that the soft-worn fabric of Sam's shirt grazes his chest, so close that they share the same air. His hands steady Sam's shoulders -- they're shaking a little under his touch -- and Sam presses his lips against his.

Sam kisses like no one else. Tongue licking over Dean's chapped lips, feeling his teeth, then slick against Dean's. The thick heat in the air burns Dean's skin like a too hot shower, Sam's tongue is a fire of its own but his hands trail down Dean's back, cooling him back to pleasant warmth. And the taste is all Sam, untainted by rot and ash, faint sweetness of _truth_ lingering underneath.

They kiss for a long while, Dean growing hard under Sam's familiar touch, pressing against Sam's thigh. His jaw begins to ache as Sam almost fucks his mouth with his tongue, but it's so much better than the lonely nights with his right hand after Sammy left.

Sam breaks the kiss, arms locked around Dean and eyes dark but still not demon-black, smile small but wider than in months. "So, you'll stay?"

Dean savors the taste of Sam on his tongue. It _is_ his Sam. "Yeah."

"Thank you," Sam whispers, then lets go of him with a hopeful look. "Just-- wait here. I'll be right back."

The heat claws Dean's back and chest again. Shit, they were coming up to the good part. "You want to do the ritual _now_?"

But Sam's already going, leaving Dean there alone. He molds a hard palm over his dick, presses down for a moment, and listens how the howling outside has dropped from angry to annoyed. Sam disappears through a doorway in the wall, hidden by the sharp edges of stone and shadows.

By the time Sam returns, Dean's lost some of the wham-bam urgency to tingling anticipation. It doesn't help that Sam's now dressed in a black robe, flame-orange stitched in the sleeves and hood, layers of fabric swirling around his feet. And the knife Sam's carrying in his hand pushes Dean's fluttering nerves into anxiety. Maybe it _is_ an elaborate trap, Sam as the bait, Dean about to snatch it and run like hell before the cage springs shut.

Sam walks to the throne, gestures Dean to join him but Dean thinks about it for a beat, heavy legs refusing to move, primal instincts still working. The chattering outside picks up as soon as Sam registers Dean's stillness and Sam's eyes fall -- hope slowly crushing -- then flitter quickly to something on his right. Dean sees Sam hunching again, then fighting against it, white-knuckled grip on the knife as the voices begin to roar.

_Oh._ The old signs are there, familiar from the times the yellow-eyed son of a bitch snaked into Sam's head.

Dean starts into action, strides to his brother's side, wraps an arm over his tense shoulders and places questing fingertips on his chest. "Sam. You okay? Is it a vision?"

"No," Sam breathes out harshly. "Just... too many of them." Sam waves his arm in a hurried arc in the direction where he glanced earlier.

Them? There's a small shift in the shadows where Sam had pointed, like light diffusing through darkness. Another doorway. Dean listens with more concentration, taking in the impatient roar, looking for patterns in the noise, trying to guess what's behind door number three. Then the roar thins out, pulses and separates into voices. All of them speaking out of turn, not a discordant conversation, not a fight. Like a crowd waiting, demanding.

Dean meets Sam's pained gaze again, his arm slipping from the trembling shoulders to steady Sam's back. He can feel Sam's heart beating wildly between his palms.

"They'll stop-- if you stay. I can stop them."

It's almost emotional blackmailing except Dean already promised to stay, completely unaware what his refusal would do to Sam, how Sam would rather suffer like this than force Dean to stay.

"I'm staying, little brother. Just tell me what we need to do."

There's careful hope in the bottom of Sam's slowly focusing gaze, a tiny relieved smile playing on his lips. The voices settle down as Sam fights to stand up straight again. Dean feels the shift of power now -- Sam's in control, not the horde outside.

"Strip, Dean," Sam almost grins. "And trust me. I'll handle the rest."

Dean frowns, tries to find a smile signaling fake indignation and gets interrupted by Sam, kissing him. It's just a press of dry lips, a hint of tongue wetting them before it's over. Dean's jeans and briefs hit the floor -- he's sure about this now -- and he steps out of them. Sam guides him towards the dark doorway, and he moves. They leave behind the pile of cotton and denim, so different from the piles of random stony debris.

\---

The hallway isn't long, but it's narrow, so narrow that there are no torches and Dean has to feel his way forward. It ends abruptly, and with the same step that Dean emerges from the shadowy path, he stands in front of probably every fucking creature in Hell. Talk about your naked-in-class nightmares.

He's stock-still on a ledge, misshaped but maybe eight feet by twelve feet, a simple wrought-iron railing separating him from a fall. It's another cavern, like the throne room, only he can't see the far wall or the ceiling; the floor is maybe fifty yards below them and tiered ledges run along the walls as far as he _can_ see. Hellfire burns in holes on the walls, on stakes on the floor, and dark, distorted figures fill every inch of space. Black demon clouds hover in the air, burnt, black-eyed bodies stand on the ground amidst ugly, wailing demons. Gargoyles perch on every tier next to translucent spirits and Dean doesn't even recognize all the evil in front of him. Looking at him in all his naked glory.

Sam nudges him forward and he falters, yielding to left rather than stepping closer to the residents of Hell. They burst into ear-splitting screams when Sam comes out to the balcony. Dean risks a quick glance at Sam -- doesn't know if there are rules forbidding it -- and sees the remnants of indecisiveness vanish in an instant as Sam pulls up to his full height, a self-assured grin playing on his lips. The knife is resting on a small stone lip protruding from the wall right next to the doorway, and Dean really hopes that Sam brought it for self-defense only.

The demons sound almost delighted to see their leader and savior; the mass of black moves excitedly on the floor. Sam walks right to the edge, toes nearly curling over it.

There's a momentary silence as Sam speaks with a loud voice, arms raised for emphasis. "I have chosen my consort."

Sam lets his arms down as the words echo around the massive space, come back with supporting screams. He looks over his shoulder at Dean, pupils dark with lust, thin ring of hazel around them, the heat pooling in Dean making him fear self-combusting on the spot. A small nod from Sam tells Dean to step forward, and he does.

A loud protest erupts from the crowd as they realize that Sam's chosen Dean, a human instead of one of them. Suddenly, he feels very vulnerable, only his brother keeping him from being ripped into pieces, and if something goes wrong, he'll be unable to defend himself and Sam.

Sam turns back to face his followers, clenching his jaw. Dean recognizes the pissed off look Sam directs at them, and the demons quiet down, obviously sensing something Dean can't.

The moment of silence goes on for a minute, Sam making sure that everyone understands that he's in charge. "Dean Winchester, my brother. The Unholy Consort."

Sam turns away from the crowd now, grabs Dean's neck and pushes him onto his knees. Time for the ritual, whatever it is. Sam pulls open the cord of his robe and parts the fabric. It flows back, smooth over Sam's hips, baring his erect cock for Dean and their crowd. Dean's dick hardens a little, nothing compared to doing this alone with Sam, without demons watching, and it feels like a violation far worse than having to do this _here_.

"C'mon, Dean. Do it."

Dean licks his dry lips, looks up at and finds nothing but Sam, his eyes pleading like they always do when Dean's down on his knees for him. Like he's afraid that this is the time when Dean says no. Fuck it, Dean would never do that.

He returns to his task, braces his left hand against Sam's hip, takes in the way Sam's cock curves up before curling his right hand around the base and guiding the tip to his mouth. He licks at the head, his tongue teasing the slit, then sweeps a wide stripe from the base to the tip.

Sam releases a strangled sob and guides his palm around Dean's skull, tilting it upwards, forcing Dean to look at him.

"Don't come," he whispers and lets his hand fall back down to his side.

Because of their audience, Dean's not even fully hard, so it's not going to be a problem. He closes his mouth around the head of Sam's cock and takes Sam in as far as he can. Dean doesn't suck yet, just rubs his tongue against the whole thick length, then lets it slide back out slowly. It's quiet around them, not forced quiet, but the kind of quiet that's waiting for something.

He thumbs the head of Sam's cock, laps away the beading pre-come and jacks his fist over spit-slick flesh. Sam grunts, nothing like the usual sounds he makes, and Dean misses the strings of filth Sam sometimes mutters. He sucks Sam back in deep, just shy of choking, and swallows. Sam's hips twitch, a shallow thrust not followed by another one, and Dean sets to work.

The eerie silence weirds Dean out, fucks with his sense of time. Shouldn't Sam have come by now? He's used every trick in his book, but Sam's still only grunting, like he's holding himself back, fighting against coming and Dean doesn't know if it's a part of the ritual or not. Shit, he doesn't even know if this is about pleasure, obedience or being claimed, and he doesn't think that he should risk it by asking. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of demons stare at him sucking his brother's cock, but it feels he kind of isn't as Sam's reactions are all wrong. Dean's skin is desiccated, uncomfortable around his bones, and nothing in the scene is turning him on.

When Dean's jaw starts to ache, he decides that enough is goddamn enough and if their crowd has seen the show so far, it can't be much more embarrassing to go all the way. So, he inches closer to Sam's crotch, knees between Sam's feet, grips Sam's ass with both hands and pulls him all the way in. Finally, Sam moans, a helpless and _open_ sound Dean hasn't heard since Sam up and vanished after saving him. He'd pull back and swallow Sam back in, but he's too close to Sam now, all leverage gone and he _can't_.

Dean clutches Sam's ass cheeks, hoping that Sam gets the message and steps back a little, so he can continue drawing those sweet-hot moans out of his brother, but Sam doesn't move. Except then his hands envelope Dean's head, fingertips pressing into Dean's skull hard enough to leave bruises. And then Sam works his hips, pulling out and slamming back in.

It's like everything comes to life. Sam's groaning, done with holding back, and the silence around them fills with a low wail. Dean feels his own cock stirring, interested in the rough hands, the sounds Sam can't keep inside anymore, in _Sam_. He tilts his head a little to get a better angle and lets Sam fuck into his mouth, even relaxes his throat, wide and welcoming.

The floor is hard under his knees, bruises already forming but it doesn't matter because there'll be a matching set on Sam's hips, Dean's fingers pressing into the skin for support even though large hands are keeping him still. Sam's breathy groans seem to echo around the cave, swelling into a beautiful soundtrack, and suddenly not coming is a lot harder.

A familiar salty taste spreads slowly over Dean's tongue -- Sam has to be close, hips pistoning in and out, cock sliding against wet tongue, saliva either not enough to soothe the friction-burn or Sam's about to burst in flames. Dean wants to drink down every drop Sam offers, to be replenished in the oppressing heat of Hell. But before Sam comes, he grips Dean's hair, pulls out and shoots over Dean's left cheek with a satisfied crescendo from the demons.

Never before in Dean's long and varied history of having sex, has anyone come on his face, and Dean's only happy that it's Sam who marks him for life like that. He tries to lick it off, to taste Sam, but Sam presses a thumb on his lips, then traces the thumb and fingers over his jaw, up to his cheek bone, swiping his face clean again.

Dean looks up -- Sam's eyes are still dark, fucked-out slow to focus, his lips parted and so inviting -- and feels like he belongs there at his brother's feet, demons be damned.

"Get up, Dean," Sam smiles, lazy dimples forming.

Dean scrambles up, knees protesting, really not expecting a coronation of any kind or even a _Long live the Consort_ , maybe a few words about the great Demon Messiah or said Messiah finger-painting him to mark him for good. His cock is aching, harder than he thought he could get, even harder than earlier with just Sam, and he just wants a moment of quality time with his hand or Sam the second the ritual's over.

Then Sam reaches for Dean's cock, fucking coats it with his come, and Sam still smiles when the black robe slides off his shoulders. There's a fresh scar across Sam's chest, not yet completely healed but a puckering pink ridge marring the tanned skin. Brief anger wells up in Dean, but he can't afford to question Sam, not while they're in front of the evil crowd that can get in Sam's head. Not that they're sounding all that demanding or enraged right now -- in fact, it's like Sam's invaded their heads, pleasure and satisfaction spreading out from his mind into those of his followers.

When Sam turns to face the crowd, he throws his arms wide again but this time braces his palms against the railing. He cants his ass up towards Dean and orders under his breath. "Fuck me, Dean."

Dean can't think about anything else he'd rather do. He grabs Sam's broad shoulders, sensing that prepping Sam is an unwanted sign of weakness, aligns himself and sinks into Sam, the Boy King, the ruler of Hell. His brother.

A low trill pierces though the air, Sam's hisses barely audible through it -- it's both pain and anticipation, Sam's body separated fom his mind. The sleek, tight muscles of Sam's back cool Dean's chest, like his touch did before, a relief against the constant scalding heat eating away at Dean's skin. His forehead rests between Sam's shoulder blades. He slides his palms down sweat-slick skin and presses more finger-shaped bruises into Sam's hips while he waits for Sam to relax.

Dean nudges Sam's feet wider apart, leaving him with no leverage, just weak support against the wrought-iron, and he feels the weight of their audience's stare on him. It sparks something in him, injects him with new strength. He rolls his hips, hears the demons' trill increase in pitch. Another roll and Sam's breath hitches, stuck high in his throat, before he keens.

The anticipation turns into pleading, trill into a wail that rises and falls, the tempo deliciously close to the one Dean sets, his hips stuttering in and out, the burn just on the right side of their own heaven.

Dean's not worried about blasphemy anymore, doing something forbidden, and he fucks the Demon Messiah like he's one step higher in the food chain and not one lower. Sam moans, rocks himself back on Dean's cock. The demons are wailing loudly, maybe moaning along but there's a different rhythm to it, lower like the ground rumbling. Dean lifts his head up, dares a look over Sam's shoulders, and the throng of evil creatures is on its knees in front of them, watching them. He startles, ducks his head back down and spills inside his brother, his king now too. With a quick lick Dean tastes their mixed sweat and with quiet words on his lips, mouthed against Sam's skin, Sam comes again, untouched.

After Dean eases out of Sam, both of them panting and spent, Sam pulls up to his full height again, turns around to kiss Dean. It's intimate, deep, tongues roving over teeth, over tongue, unhurried. They stay like that for a while, in silence, fingers curled around arms, back, neck. It's not their usual thing, not the first post-sex making out session, either, but they're vulnerable, in Hell and surrounded by the very things they're supposed to kill. The kiss becomes stiff after Dean realizes this. Sam's plan better be solid. And fucking epic.

Sam breaks it off, probably feeling Dean coming back to his senses. He gives Dean one last smile before growing serious and addressing his followers. "Who will be the first one to accept us?"

Nothing happens for long beats of time. Dean's about to panic, sure that it isn't supposed to be like that. Then a black cloud -- 100% pure demon -- surges towards them, stopping to hover on the other side of the railing.

"Good. It's done, then," Sam says, like there was never any doubt.

The demon-smoke flows onto the ledge, and Dean steps back as it settles right in front of him. He wonders what's next, is he expected to fuck a demon, to use his new power and give his first command, to make new friends, what? But Sam steps to his side, holding out the knife he had brought with them.

"Take it, Dean. Use it."

There are two ways to use a knife, business and kinky-ass pleasure, and at that moment Dean's not all that sure which one Sam means. Though kinky sex with a goddamn cloud of smoke is really not what he signed on to do. He looks at his brother, just to be sure he won't be torn into pieces if he has the wrong idea.

"He accepts my choice. You need to accept it, too."

It's not quite what Dean wanted to hear, plain _fight_ or _fuck_ the better and clearer version, but the gist is clear enough. Dean's the second-in-command, and in Hell power comes through shedding blood. Or smoke. Whatever.

Dean takes the knife, tries its weight against his palm, looks at the slithering pillar of smoke and drives the blade into the demon. He doesn't stop to think about how to stab a cloud or what all this even means. He's following Sam's lead, and it's a fucking demon. One less for them to worry about. He feels resistance as the blade slices into the surprisingly solid smoke-form.

There's a collective screech, more celebratory than angry, and the smoke disintegrates into thin wisps carried away by turbulence. Dean's skin isn't burning anymore. Sam's a strong presence behind him, warm now as he presses his chest against Dean's back. The knife is still in his hand, but Sam doesn't pry it away. They're facing the crowd, and he lets Sam arrange his body again, hands grabbing his wrists, spreading their arms wide, inviting anyone brave or stupid enough to stand against them.

They're naked but the adrenaline in Dean's veins makes him not care and he lifts his chin, smirks, finding the right attitude to go along with their pose, then feels Sam fitting his chin against the top of his head. He's finally with his brother, hundreds upon hundreds of demons bowing before them.

Dean catches a light behind Sam's eyes, and it's not hellfire.

_\--end--_


End file.
